welcome to kimberland...

I saw this on some blog whose name I can no longer remember, and its format reminded me of blog posts on MySpace and message boards from days of yore.  And since it's been awhile since I've commented on any of these things, I figured it was quite apropos...

Current Book(s): The Cobra Effect by Richard Preston and Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain (I know, I know, I'm a bad foodie for not having read this one sooner.  I did read Medium Raw, though!)

Current Playlist: Sadly, I haven't had much time for music lately.  Terrible, I know, but without anything to listen to my music with, like a CD player, an iPod, or even that newfangled "radio" contraption, that makes things a little difficult. I did bust out my shitty desktop speakers and played some Kate Bush recently, so that was nice.  That, of course, led to me singing, then practicing old arias, so now I'm listening to old composers instead.

Current Shame-Inducing Guilty Pleasure: Scharffen Berger Dark Chocolate "Nibby" Bar.  Best dark chocolate ever meets crunchy, toasty cacao nibs for this intensely deep, dark chocolate experience.  I have like 3 squares left and I'm trying ever-so-hard not to take a nibble every now & then. 

Current Color: Gray.  Like the sky on this gross, rainy, first day of June.

Current Drink: Cold water (as usual)

Current Food: Nothing at the moment.  But lunch is in a few minutes, so I'll be in noodle soup heaven momentarily.

Current Favorite Show: Not much of a TV watcher outside of the news, but now that America's Got Talent is back on, I may have to check out a few episodes.  Oh, and The Voice.  SO much better than snooze-worthy American Idol!

Current Wishlist: A car; to be all caught up on my utility bills so I can just pay ONE bill instead of two (catching up on bills after unemployment takes forEVER...); sunny days; a trip to Baja California; a giant vodka martini, dirty, with 5 olives.  Yes, I said five.  Every martini is an opportunity to have a balanced meal & load up on your veggies.

Current Needs: SUN, money, lunch.

Current Bane(s) of my Existence: Having to cover the front desk while the receptionist is out on jury duty.  Not because I feel it's "beneath" me or anything; it's just that the nature of my particular position is that I need to be in a quiet spot where I can concentrate on a lot of the numbers I have to crunch, so constant interruptions are no bueno.  That and the asshole drivers on Watt Ave./Folsom Blvd. who seem to think that the 18 seconds it takes for me to cross the street during MY light is going to make them so late for life that they have to turn while I'm crossing so that they can be just one inch closer to the freeway.  Asshats.

Current Celebrity (Girl) Crush: Tina Fey.
Current Outfit: White scoopneck tee, gray hoodie w/floral print, indigo jeans that have turned my thighs blue because I was too lazy to wash them before wearing them the first time.

Current Excitement: Still pretty damn giddy about being chosen to lead my panel at this year's IFBC in Santa Monica!

Current Link: Because everyone should know the joy of saying - and knowing the meaning of - words like "kench". (20 Obsolete English Words That Should Make A Comeback)

If any eligible bachelor is interested in squiring me and making me his bride, this is a pretty good way to get my attention: Wooing my parents, home improvement, and a kitten wearing a sentimental collar.  Chocolate: optional and appreciated, but not required.  Diamond: up to you.

If you're a friend of mine or a reader of PGEW, you know I've always had issues with my living situation.  Not just financially, but in terms of its location and the way it made me feel.  See, when I first moved to the building, it wasn't really by choice.  Rent at my old building had just skyrocketed by $200+ in one month, I'd just been in a car accident & missed a ton of work, so I was basically forced to find someplace cheaper.  

I rented the first place that would take me with my financial issues, thinking it would be a temporary situation.  I didn't want to have to move again, but I knew that a shoddy downstairs apartment in plain view of everyone who would walk or drive through the alleyway, was not a place I wanted to call home for very long.  At the very least, I hoped to move upstairs, just to have some peace of mind and not have that fishbowl effect in my apartment.

But things got worse for me - and for everyone - once the recession hit, so downstairs I had to stay.  It was a much smaller place than the one I'd moved from, so having all my stuff and very little storage space made it difficult for me to settle in completely.  I never fully decorated because I had little wall space and fewer funds, and just felt..... sad there.  I didn't want to be there.

Then, after being there for about a year, I ended up with a Peeping Tom (or, as I like to call him, The Peeping Tool).  That asshole terrorized me for three months, watching me dress/undress, use the restroom, or just go about my life in my apartment.  No, my blinds weren't open.  Except for the front window in the living room, all of my windows were on the alley sides, so I always kept my blinds & curtains drawn. 

That bastard was pretty aggressive, though, literally crouching down to see up through my closed blinds, and, if I happened to walk from one room to another, he would actually follow me.  I saw his face the first few times and have it burned into my memory, so I gave the police a very detailed description.  Sadly, they never did catch him.  I still see him in nightmares, always wondering when/if he'd be coming back to watch me.  Or do something worse.

Despite all that, I tried to make the best of this living situation for nearly three years.  But the longer I stayed, the more depressed I got.  I'll admit that now.  Sure, I suffer from my fair share of SAD in the winter, but this was a more generalized depression, made worse by the fact that I always had to keep everything dark, was either un- or under-employed and perpetually in danger of losing the apartment I hated.

Not a fun way to live at all.

Last month, my (very loud) upstairs neighbor moved rather unexpectedly.  I didn't mind because that meant I could actually hear myself think again (writers really need quiet), but also dreaded the possibility of someone even louder.  No problem, I told myself.  Since I'd finally secured a good, steady job, I'd already decided to move someplace else in spring or summer.  I had seen the other two apartments on the other side of our little fourplex, and mine was sadly bigger & better than those.  I didn't even consider the upstairs one an option anymore.  I was done.

But life being what it is, there was a showing of the upstairs place this Saturday.  My curiosity about everything bordering on feline, I couldn't help but ask my landlord's employee if I could take a quick look.  Now would be the prime opportunity to move upstairs; everything else in Midtown is either too expensive or a studio, and I couldn't possibly go to a smaller place without just moving into a closet.  I figured that if the kitchen in the upstairs apartment didn't suck (of the three I'd seen, mine had the best kitchen), I'd ask if I could trade apartments. 

Yeah, yeah, I based my decision on the kitchen, but I'm a food blogger, dammit.  I have needs.

Turns out the kitchen was better than mine.  The whole place was better than mine, but I sorta knew that would be the case.  Just the ability to do things like *gasp* let the sunshine in made the place feel 100% better.  The floors were actually refinished & a lighter color than downstairs; the paint was nice & fresh; hell, there was even a wall of shelves I didn't have downstairs - hooray for extra storage space!

There were few things that were not so good: the closet in the living room was about a third of the size of mine, and because of voltage & space issues (those awesome shelves were suddenly not so awesome), I wouldn't be able to bring my washer & dryer with me.  And the stove!!!  That thing was about the size of my laptop!  Sure, it had four burners & it was a gas range, but my God!  What was I supposed to cook with?  Fisher-Price toys?

Still, I asked my landlord if I could move upstairs.  She said I could, but I'd have to start moving pretty much that same day.  I knew I couldn't find anyone to help me move on such short notice, but told her I'd try anyway.  But considering I'd also committed to helping a friend with a dinner party that night, I knew there was no way I could move in 3 hours. 

So I told my landlord that if she didn't rent it in the next few weeks, she could consider it rented for April.  Just walking through it briefly it felt better, more like home.  Safe.  I just hoped & prayed that no one else would rent it.

About an hour later, I got a call from our handyman saying that my landlord had told him my situation and asked if he could help me move.  Holy shit!  I thought.  If this isn't a sign that it's meant to be, I don't know what is?  What landlord asks her handyman to help a tenant move, right? 

So I took it.  I did ask if the stoves to be switched and for a few days to get everything moved & cleaned, since the decision and original timeframe had been so sudden.  But again, it was probably meant to be because Mrs. Landlord easily agreed to both.  I scheduled a time to have Mr. Handyman help me move the big stuff, and within 24 hours after having seen the place, I had a new lease, new keys and a new home.

It's not a perfect place.  It's still very, very tiny, and I will have to start using a laundromat again, at least until I get something smaller for my laundry room.  But last night, as I climbed into bed all sore & exhausted from Phase One of my unexpected move, I realized that for the first time in almost three years, I felt hopeful.  I was excited about getting everything completely moved and looked forward to how I would decorate.  I was even looking forward to inviting people to my tiny place, something I never felt comfortable doing downstairs. 

This feels good.  Crazy, but good.  Now, if I can only convince the furbabies of that...

Because of the many health issues I had this year, I missed some work during the last few weeks of my last temp job.  And as a temp, when you don't work you don't get paid.  And when you don't get paid, you stress out and continue to get sick.  It's a vicious cycle that I'm sure many folks are dealing with right now, and it's not pretty at all.  I was so desperate for money that I started selling everything else I didn't sell the first time I found myself without a job (and I'm continuing to sell stuff until I'm all caught up on my rent &  utilities).  Things I swore I would never sell because they were gifts or hard-earned tokens of happiness that I'd get for myself when I could afford a more normal life.  I just didn't know another way to get quick money right now.... at least not without compromising my morals and everything I stand for (my Lord, I hate ending sentences w/dangling prepositions...).

Anyway, I have this friend who is sort of like the little devil that sits on one shoulder in older (better than today's) cartoons.  She has made quite a business for herself as a "personal escort" and rakes in quite a ton of cold, hard cash.  She started this last year after getting fired from our old company and is apparently living quite a wonderful life filled with money and tons of material things.  She keeps trying to convince me that this is the way to my financial freedom.  "Kimberly, it will change your life!" she tells me.  "You'll never be broke again.  You'll be able to pay your bills AND go shopping!"  But I always turn her down.  Selling sex for money just isn't in my daily M.O., you know?

Still, I get texts from her regularly, checking in to see if I've changed my mind about running my own "business".  And I must admit, after reading her website and what she charges, the offer is tempting.  Things like $350/hr or $900/2 hrs of "GFE" fun (which I learned through some online searching means "girlfriend experience") stand out to someone like me, who is in danger of being evicted if backed up rent isn't caught up by January.  She goes on lavish, luxurious, international trips; she offers girl-on-girl action for $2K or more for one evening.  She is ROLLING in it because of what she's willing to do.

But at what cost???  Are my morals so easily bought and sold by the lure of ridiculous amounts of easy cash that I won't be able to account for legally when tax-time comes?

NO!!!!!

I'm definitely hurting for money and still very close to becoming homeless, even with the new job (it takes forever to get paid, let alone caught up!), but I just can't lower myself to the levels that have been offered to me.  Sure, I'm trying to sell my mind in different ways by offering blogging gigs, recipe development, etc. in order to make ends meet right now, but that's not my entire person, my womanhood, my integrity.  Some may argue that those things are one in the same, but I do not.  Am I wrong?  Where exactly is the line drawn between providing a service and providing a "service"?  Maybe there isn't a line, and if there is it is most definitely blurred.

I value myself and my body.  I know I need money but I think I have many other things to offer the world than cheap and easy sex.  Sex is everywhere, and a lot of times you can get it for free.  Personally, I've never understood the need to charge for something so readily available and accessible.  My mind, on the other hand, that's another story.  That's something unique and exclusive, the kind of thing whose power you can't find just anywhere.  With my mind and knowledge I help people; with sex, my friend does not.  Sure, she may rake in a ton of cash that way, but for what?  For something anyone can do for free, and without the awful addition of knowing you sold that basest of needs for money.  "I cried the entire time my first night," she told me, "because I just couldn't stand myself."

I won't go into all the psychological and social ramifications that something like this is sure to cause, because they're pretty self-explanatory.  Suffice it to say that someone like me, who suffers from some pretty low self-esteem issues to begin with, would feel even lower than usual if that were my source of income.  I'd also become Captain Paranoia, wondering where exactly one would put all that cash, not to mention when exactly the Feds would come asking for their cut ("Don't you ever worry about getting audited?" I've asked my friend before. "No. I spend it too fast to put it away."  Ack).  If someone like my friend couldn't even stand herself after the first night, I can't begin to imagine what I'd feel like.  Then there are all the other issues, like personal safety, physical safety....... nononono.  I couldn't never do it.  No matter how incredibly desperate I may be.

So now, in my second week at my new job, I think to myself: thank GAWD I have my priorities straight.  Yes, these past couple of months - nay, this whole year has been terribly difficult on me and on a lot of others.  I have a good, steady job with kick-ass benefits now, but I am still struggling and will have to do so for a good two or three months.  You just don't bounce back from this sort of thing just because you get an offer letter in the mail.  I've had to go without more than I'm already used to doing: not just selling my possessions but having to isolate myself away from anything fun with my friends because everything, even a cup of coffee, costs money.  I've been sick with stress and frustration, upset at not being able to move forward in my life; in short, things have really sucked! 

But despite all this, I knew that I was made of something stronger, something that would not take me down a road that I would never want to travel, something that kept me from having to sell myself just to make ends meet.  I'll sell my stuff and I'll sell my knowledge; the stuff I can always replace, and the knowledge just keeps coming with each day I spend on this Earth.  But my pride?  My morals?  My inegrity?  How could I possibly sell those, no matter how shitty finances are?  How, when there are assistance programs for people in dire straits?  How, when offers of shelter have been made to me, in case of eviction (though that's still something I hope to avoid, as that stays on your record 7 whole years...)?  How, when I there are menial jobs, telecommuting gigs, and eBay to get you through those scariest of times? 

I know I don't have human children, another "escort" acquaintance's excuse for "doing whatever it takes".  But my own life and the lives of my feline children are just as valuable in my eyes, and I think that "whatever it takes" can be defined in less..... controversial terms.  I'm not going to judge my friend or those who feel they need to sell sex to make ends meet; everyone's circumstances are different, and they're entitled to make their own choices.  I just know that for me, it's not worth it.  There are better opportunities out there, and though they may take a lot of time & effort to find, it's worth the wait.  And the peace of mind.

So I've been MIA from Kimberland for awhile.  Not because I had nothing to say or anything, but because I just found it difficult to say it.  The stress & depression that shrouded me over these past few months because of not having a job or any real income to ensure basic needs like shelter were beyond overwhelming.  And as hard as it was to muster up the good humor to write a relatively non-depressing PGEW post, it was 500x harder to write here.  I would have dragged everyone down.  I would have made it impossible to want to deal with me anymore.

Things are still pretty bad: I can't pay December's rent until the 30th, I'm living on borrowed time with my utility companies, hoping that they don't cut me off anytime soon, and my foot is broken, making maneuvering through life all that harder.  But things are looking up.  Slowly but surely, life seems to be turning around... and for the better, for once.  It's scary and cool all at the same time.  I was finally hired for a full-time, permanent position at an agency I will actually feel happy about contributing to; I am working with a legitimate lit agent in the hopes of getting a book published in the next couple of years; and I finally, for the first time in about a year, feel like there's a light at the end of the tunnel.  It's going to be a long journey toward that light, but I have an end point now, and that feels good.

To make it possible to have things like a light rail pass to get to said job, as well as a phone to receive calls from it, I had a yard sale this past weekend.  Actually, it was a yard/bake sale, since that had worked fairly well for my mom & me this summer.  People love food, especially when they're shopping (hence the food court at the mall), so it only seemed natural to combine the two.  The holiday season gave me a better excuse to tempt my customers with homemade treats, and they were quite well-received.  Always a great thing to experience if you're a cook or baker, like me.

The yard sale itself was a success, too.  Not just because I sold a lot more stuff than I did this summer (much better crowds, only two low-ballers and no unruly children ruining everything), but because I met some really cool people.  See, that's my favorite thing about yard sales: the people.  Sure, you have the aforementioned evil low-ballers, who want diamond rings for a penny and think you're a raging bitch for having the nerve to say "no" to their "negotiations" (I'm looking at you, cheapskate who wanted the nice set of glasses for $1).  But when those people aren't present or, at the very least, kept to a bare minimum at your sale, you're able to encounter the cool folks; the ones who have interesting spirits, great souls, and some of the best conversations to offer anyone (and the hot boys who embody all three of these).  My sale on Saturday was full of all of these amazing people, some of whom showed me kindnesses that I never expected to be so fortunate to receive...

• My friend, Suzanne, who had just stopped by for moral support, actually ended up setting up most of my sale for me!  Dealing with a broken foot and a migraine made it very difficult for me to maneuver around all the muddy terrain of our front yard.  And those early birds!!!  I barely had one box out and I had like 10 people tossing stuff all over the place.  It was so wonderful to have an extra pair of hands helping to set up all my stuff.  Not to mention how awesome she was about pimping out my baked goods.  :)
• My neighbor, Monika, and one of her friends whom I'd never even met at that point, graciously donated a ton of stuff for me to sell.  Not for their own profit, but just to help me & my cause (the cause being enough light rail fare to get me to my new job)!  It was incredibly generous of them and those extra goods did end up bringing in some much needed cash.
• A local PGEW reader & fan decided to stop by to shop & chat, which is always awesome.  I love, love, LOVE meeting my fans, since it gives me a way to put a real face to all the comments I get on the blog.  But not only did Karla buy a few things and keep me company for a bit, she also brought me homemade goodies!  Two loaves of homemade bread (one fresh out of the oven... nom...), some warm fuzzy socks, and a delciously fresh, cucumber-scented soap were my first Christmas gifts of the season, and all because what I do on PGEW seems to resonate with others.  They're thanking me for telling my story; with bread & fuzzy socks, no less!  Just reinforces how much I love doing what I do...
• One random yard-saler ended up being an awesome conversationalist & cookbook enthusiast who eagerly bought some of my old cookbooks and asked where he could unload some of his (offer still stands to bring 'em here, sir!).  After some chit chat and purchases, he asked if I liked bread.  Why, yes, as a matter of fact, even though I don't eat it that often.  He had me hobble over to his minivan, opened the back door and revealed about five giant bags filled with loaves and loaves of delicious bread!  Apparently, The Bread Store in Downtown Sac literally throws away their day-old breads & pastries (shame, shame, shame), and this fellow collects those day-olds and takes them to different churches and shelters to be distributed to the needy.  Since he had about 70 loaves of bread, he let me have a few (hello, mini sourdough bowls!!!), and without even blinking, I ended up with plenty of the barest bare bones staple of all. 

In the middle of all this awesome giving, I sold, sold and sold some more, finally getting rid of a lot of the stuff my mom & I had brought up from her storage unit to help her pare down her bills.  I couldn't believe that I was able to get rid of so much stuff, and it was by far the best yard sale I've ever put on (and there have been several)!  I was set to get that light rail pass and pay my phone bill.  Score!

But it wasn't all about me that day.  As I watched people peruse the goods and helped them bag up their cookies and liqueur balls, I noticed a guy on a bike passing by every once in awhile.  Back and forth he rode, slowing down to look at the sale, particularly the baked goods.  Towards the end of the day, he finally stopped and asked how much the steam cleaner was.  I had the feeling he wasn't really all that interested in it, but he kept up the pretense of browsing for a bit while I studied him.  Tall and slender, about 50 or so, he looked like he was once a very handsome fellow, before whatever life circumstances had led him to this obviously transient state.  He wasn't dirty or unkempt or anything; he didn't look like a lush or druggie, either.  But he had a large bag of cans & bottles to be taken to the recycling center later, as well as a basket full of books.  And he just looked... sad.  Like the life had been sucked out of him and now he was barely going through the motions of existing.  It made me wonder what could have possibly caused this fellow to end up this way.  Then I mentally kicked myself for such a stupid thing, since I was having a yard sale specifically for the purpose of not ending up there.  Some people don't really understand this, but there are so many people who are just one paycheck away from having to collect cans & bottles for something close to a "living".  And those who have no paychecks have yard sales. 

I noticed he was eyeing the baked goods again, so I sort of tested the waters and asked if anything looked good.  "Ohhh, man...  everything looks good.  But I don't really have any money right now.  Haven't gotten paid yet," he added, patting his large bag of recyclables. 

It was nearing the end of the sale and I'd had a terrific day, much better than I had expected.  I had another tray of cookies cooling on a rack inside, so.....

"How about you take the rest of these for the road?  It'll save me some clean-up and a few calories," I joked.
"Really?  All of those?"  There were only four cookies left.
"Yes!  You'll really be helping me out."
"Okay."  As I bagged his cookies, his eyes drifted to the bottles of water I'd been selling.  "Think I can have some water, too?"
"Of course!"  I'd bought the flat for like $3 at Safeway earlier that morning.  One bottle wasn't going to hurt anyone. 

He took his bag of cookies and ate one right away.  Then he opened up his bottle of water and drank about 3/4 of it in two huge gulps.  "I didn't realize how thirsty I was," he said with a weak grin.  "That really hit the spot.  Thank you.  God Bless you.  Now I've got to go get paid."

I gave him another bottle of water and the rest of the brownie bites "for the road" and watched him ride away, happily drinking his water. 

At that point, I seriously wanted to cry, because I have felt that way before.  Maybe not thirst-wise (I drink too much water for that to happen), but definitely in hunger and need/want for other things.  I've been dealing with it for the better part of the last 2 years, and it's not fun at all.  But as difficult as things have been, I've also been extremely fortunate to have others help me through this truly shitty time.  Friends, coworkers, family, complete strangers....... whether it's bread or light rail fare or pet care, I've been incredibly lucky to have experienced the true kindness and generosity of others, and it's helped tremendously.  But I've always felt a little guilty at accepting the help, even though I know I've needed it.  I hate asking for help and putting myself out there like that, especially when I always feel like I have to pay it back, fully knowing that I might not be able to anytime soon. 

Fortunately, the man on the bike stopped by my Yard Sale and helped me realize that it's okay not to pay it back; paying it forward is just as good, if not better.  I know it was just some cookies and water, but to him it was a feast.  And knowing that I could help brighten someone's day even in that small way is more rewarding than all the little yard sale successes I've had and will ever have again.

"Yeah, your heart's really racing along there," the lead paramedic was telling me as I tried to remember if I'd turned off the stove in case they had to take me away in a hearse. "One hundred and.... ninety-five!  What do you say we take a trip to the hospital and get you checked out."

I nodded weakly, afraid to exert myself any more than I had to considering my heart was just about to burst.  Woozily, I tried thinking about what had caused this, why I was feeling this way, why André the Giant had crawled into my chest cavity, grabbed hold of my heart with his massive hands and kept squeezing, squeezing, squeeeeeeeeeeezing.

The pain of it was like nothing I'd ever felt in my life, and as a card-carrying klutz, I've felt a lot of pain.  Broken bones, sprains and twisted joints were nothing compared to this hell I was feeling.  I felt like I was dying.  I was dizzy and weak with pain and fear.  What would happen to Hana and StuKitty?  No one had my key and no one would know what had happened.  Who would tell my mom?  How would she react?  Would she be sad or would she be angry with the pain of losing me?

"You're young and healthy, so I'm pretty sure it's not cardiac," the new hot EMT was saying.  Oh, sure, now there was a hot one.  He'd sneaked up on me on my left side and started putting all sorts of new sticky EKG thingies on my chest and belly.  As if I hadn't been plastered with enough shit already.

"I'm too fat," I slurred, "that's why this is happening to me."

"You are not too fat," Hot Boy argued.  "Trust me, you look just fine."

"I need to lose 30 pounds," I insisted.

"You'd be losing too much if you did that," he said.  "Relax and don't move so we can get a better read on your heart."

Relax.  Yeah, right!  My heart is going to explode, I have a tea stain on my PJ pants from earlier this morning before all this happened, and I hadn't shaved my legs in 3 days.  Fairly certain I looked like Chewbacca, I tried to hide my legs from his probing hands with all those stupid sticky EKG things.

"Time to take a ride," said Mr. Authority, the first one who'd announced that my heart was beating faster than a bad techno record.  "Can you get onto the gurney okay?"

"My cats," I moaned.  "I need to know that they're okay.  The white & gray one likes to escape."

"They're both on the bed, looking at us all weird.  They'll be fine."

"I need to see them," my stubborn ass told them.  I got up off the couch, stumbled through the kitchen.  Fell.

"What's that all about?" yelled Mr. Authority.

"Dizzy."

Strong hands gripped my arm painfully and led me to the gurney.  I dizzily fell into it, adjusting myself as directed to make sure I wouldn't fall off.  Lights flashed everywhere as they wheeled me down the walkway.  My neighbor, her face creased with concern, asked if I wanted her to call my mom.  "Nooooo," I pleaded.  "Not right now.  I don't want to worry her."  I'm so much like my dad in that respect.  He does the same thing to me every time he gets hospitalized...

Hot Boy had to sit with me, of course.  I avoided looking at him, despite his ridiculous beauty.  I don't deserve to see him, I told myself.  I need to lose 30 pounds.

Within minutes, we'd wound our way through Midtown and ended up at Sutter General's ER, as I'd directed. It's the closest to my house, without being a Level I Trauma Center like UCD, which automatically comes with a 14-hour wait if you're not in dire danger.  I'd forgotten I couldn't breathe and my heart was failing.  It might have only taken 3 hours instead.

They checked me in and I was taken to a room already housed by another Kimberly.  I didn't want witnesses to my misery, but there she was, behind a thin, ugly curtain.  Repeatedly they asked the same questions: where does it hurt?  Can you describe the pain?  NO, I wanted to yell.  I cannot fucking BREATHE anymore, it hurts so bad.  QUIT ASKING ME QUESTIONS AND HELP ME!!!

"It's probably just anxiety," said a short, blonde, perky nurse.  I wanted to bitch slap her.

"I've had anxiety attacks before.  This feels nothing like that," I wheezed.

Big mistake.

"Ohhhh, you've had anxiety?  Okayyyyy, don't wooooorrrrryyy...." she purred in the same condescending voice all nurses use for the "whack jobs". "You'll be just fine."

Fuck.  Now they were going to 5150 me for an alleged anxiety attack.

In my regular, rational mind, I scolded myself for having let on that I'd ever had anything close to a DSM-IV related condition.  I worked in the mental health field long enough to know that even the most innocent symptoms can be twisted to suit the goals of undergrad interns and LCSW-hopefuls, regardless of the patient's real condition.  But, in my defense, I felt I had to let them know; I had to let them see that I knew the difference between the physical and the psychological.  Any anxiety I did feel at the moment was not the cause of my discomfort and pain, it was the result of it!  "I'm a mental health worker!!!" I wanted to scream.  "I know what this is all about!"

Of course, they didn't take me seriously after that.  Everyone's tone of voice turned syrupy sweet. The kind of voice reserved only for they psych patients.  After being properly wired to every cardiac machine (they do try covering their butts even if their diagnoses have already been made), SHE came in: a short, icy blonde with steely gray eyes, her lips set in a tight frown, the nostrils of her slender nose flaring slightly.  I hadn't noticed at the time that the gal from registration was explaining how I could apply for a county medical program for folks without insurance; when she heard that, Ice Princess, MD, decided I was an unworthy subject.

They gave me an IV of something I'll never know the name of, but my reaction to what was given confirmed that it was probably Ativan or Klonopin; something mild and of the anti-anxiety family to "chill me out".  An amusing tech took me to get a chest x-ray, swapping favorite lines from Forrest Gump with me.  He made me feel human when the rest of them made me feel like a statistic.

After the x-ray I was brought back down to my bed.  No one reconnected me to all my vital stats machines.  I waited.  Waited to see if someone would show up to tell me where the bathroom was.  Waited to find out what the hell was wrong with my heart, a muscle that was born wrong inside of me in the first place, but had been kind to me thus far.  Please, please, don't make me go on heart meds, I pleaded to no one, and no one answered.  Okay, I figured.  It's an ER.  They're busy.

Hours passed and eventually I was transferred to a different, single room (only after one of the hot male nurses realized that there was more than one patient in the double room he was cleaning).  My new nurse, Jenny - the first name I'd gotten all day - was super sweet but left me unattended almost immediately.  "Steve", the next dude, had the requisite "cool" sense of humor, but again, was nowhere to be found when I needed him.  Like when I needed a blanket because I was cold.  I got out of my bed, threw all the wires over my left shoulder in an effort to get close to the cabinet of warm blankets that was RIGHT THERE!!!  And nothing.  I was literally six inches away from a warm blankie and unable to get any closer for fear of damaging an important vein into which my (ever-so-poorly-administered) IV was dripping.  I literally had to flag "Steve" down like an airport runway worker, waving my right arm in the air in a gesture quite similar to that of Donnie Wahlberg's in New Kids On the Block's "Hangin' Tough" video (yes, it was 17 years ago but I have a very photographic memory and remember it vividly).  He wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and I waited for another couple of hours for some real answers.

Heh.  How naive of me to think I'd actually get those.

"Ms. Morales, I'm afraid everything has come back clear and you are fine," said Dr. Bitch - er, Dr. Ritz, her steely gray eyes flashing with disapproval and her own conceit.  Really, for someone at least 10 years younger than I am, she had some serious issues.  Lighten up a little, bitch, thought I.

I asked her what I could do to help alleviate the feelings of pressure and squeezing, even if the med they'd given me "for the pain" (a med whose name I still don't know; guess I'll find out w/the bill).  Her answer?

"I don't know what to tell you about that."

Bitch.

"If I can't take my Albuterol anymore, what can I do when I'm having an asthma attack?  I'm dealing with a cold here... my lungs are the first to react to any sort of URI."

Again, her cold gray eyes flashed at the mention of "URI".  She obviously didn't think I knew all of her medical jargon.

"I don't know what to tell you about that either," was her clipped reply.

Fucking bitch!  If you don't know, then why am I here???  You're the alleged doctor!!! I wanted to scream, but had no lung power, no heart, no life left in me to even argue with this troglodyte in scrubs and a lab coat.

I was released without further instructions, without a signed discharge form, without answers.  I'm sure they thought that would be the end of it because I was "just another anxiety patient".  Too bad for them I landed in the hospital again, just two days later...

So I turned 34 last Wednesday (or entered into my 34th year, depending on which friend you ask).  I have to admit there was actually a moment of panic for awhile there, when I realized I would be entering the beginning of my mid-30's, also known as the swift ascent to my 40's.  See, I tend to think of decades in thirds as opposed to the standard 50/50: 30-33 = early thirties; 34-36 = mid-thirties; 37-39 = late thirties.  I don't really know when I started to look at ages this way, but when you think about it for a bit, it kinda makes sense.

I don't know about other folks but I do feel a little different now that I've entered this age range or state of mind. Not physically or anything like that, although I do hate the fact that it's much harder to lose weight after the big 3-0.  But I feel a bit more... settled.  Grounded, despite the chaos that is my life.  I remember feeling this way when I turned 30, happy to finally enter the age that I'd felt mentally for most of my life (I was always a very mature child, which is probably why I'm such an immature adult at times).  My body had finally caught up with my mind and I felt much more comfortable with myself, empowered by the lessons I'd learned in my 20's, yet still fabulously youthful looking.

Just six days into my 34th year, I am experiencing that same sense of ease and calm.  A bit like the silence that surrounds everything immediately after a tempestuous storm.  I know things aren't perfect but I feel as if the puzzle pieces of my life are slowly making their descent so that they'll eventually fall slightly into place.  I appreciate the things that matter in life more with each passing year, particularly the joys of knowing my parents in a completely different way.  We're on more level ground now that I'm an adult, and to hear them asking me for my advice, my ideas, my comfort is just incredible to me.  I've also come to realize that there may actually be more good in people than I'd previously thought, provided one surrounds oneself with the right kind.  I may not have the raging social life I had in my 20's, but the quality of the friends and acquaintances I have is far superior to anything I've ever known.

And I finally feel as if I've stumbled upon a career that will work for me AND make me happy.  Though it sounds cocky, all my life I've been too good at too many things: writing, singing, cooking, counseling, basic medical skills & superior diagnostic abilities sans training.  It's made it quite difficult for me to choose what path to follow and that's been part of why my life has been such a tornado of emotions and conflicts.  But now... now that I've learned my writing - and cooking - can bring such joy, support and comfort to others, through a medium I would have never imagined using for such a thing, I know in my heart that this is what I was meant to do.

These are the lessons I've learned at 30, 31, 32 and 33.  And they are the building blocks to a more confident, settled me as I enter this new phase of life.  I know I have a lot of work to do: on myself, on my potential writing career, on my social life (I really need to quit isolating).  But I also know that this work does pay off, slowly but surely, and that's okay.  I have plenty of time to grow and learn and experience life.  And, good or bad, I can't wait to see what the future brings.

For now, I'll just enjoy the wonders of being smarter, more confident and far wiser despite the scars life's struggles have left.  They're like badges of honor: difficult and painful to earn, but treasured for their rewards of wisdom and patience.

 To being 34-midable*!



*If you're reading this aloud or imagining my voice as you read, just remember 34-midable should always be pronounced with a hearty French accent. :)

I have several other posts waiting in the queue, but there are times when life - or death - takes over and makes other things far more important.  

If you know me personally and not just blog-wise, you know that I live and breathe two bands pretty much all day long: Interpol and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.  Their styles are quite different, especially when it comes to live performances, but both bands' music has touched something in me that few bands have been able to do.  In the case of BRMC, however, the experience involves much more than just the music.  As with Better Than Ezra, another one of my favorite bands to follow, I've fallen in love not just with the music, but with the whole band and crew.  Peter (singer/guitarist), Robert (singer/bassist), and Leah (drummer) are some of the most down-to-Earth, genuinely friendly rockstars you will ever have the pleasure of meeting.  They're  happy to spend real time with their fans before or after a show, and don't have the pretentious attitude that some musicians have.  The band's crew is just as awesome: tireless, hardworking and funny, and a couple of the guys have become good friends throughout the years.

But yesterday, the band - and the music world in general - lost the most important person in that crew - or the fourth member of the band, depending on who you asked.  Such was the important role he played in the band.  Michael Been, who some of you may remember as the front man for the 80's band, The Call, died of a heart attack yesterday in Belgium.  He was only 60.

Now, I'm not going to write about his amazing career or the specifics surrounding his untimely passing; you can find write-ups aplenty online right now.  I want to share what Michael - or "Papa", as a lot of us who devotedly follow BRMC call him - meant to me as a person, for he was truly a wonderful human being.

I met Papa Been sometime in 2006 or 2007, during the height of my concert-going days (oh, how I miss those days... can't wait to bring those back again!).  Part of the fun of following BRMC is being able to chat with the guys after the show, which is usually the time when the crew is busy breaking down the band's equipment and loading it back up before heading out to the next stop on the tour.  Papa Been, who was the sound engineer for BRMC, was always out there too, helping out just as much as the next guy.  If he was taking a short break, he didn't mind if you approached him for a quick chat or a congrats on how good the show was, and it didn't matter if he'd never met you before - he always had a ready smile and "thank you" for you.  Once he'd gotten to know you a bit after seeing you at several shows, that smile also came along with a hearty handshake or a big hug.  And in the case of my BRMC friends and me, those giant hugs could also come with a big ol' kiss on the cheek, and a "How are you, sweetie?"

"Sweetie".  We were all his "sweeties", his "girls"....

You could talk to Papa Been about anything, and that made him a pretty popular attraction after the show.  From how the band sounded that night ("They're so fucking awesome... just amazing," or, "That place made them sound like shit... it's a crap venue...") to what he thought of other bands out there, to what you were doing with your own life, Papa Been was just that in my eyes: a dad.  Not just to Rob and the rest of the band & crew, but for all his "sweeties" and other fans.  He even looked like the perfect dad, with his snowy white hair and beard, and those twinkling eyes.  And let's not forget about that wicked sense of humor or his inability to mince words - 9 times out of 10 he would usually have me rolling with laughter, he was so friggin' hilarious!

I had - and will always have - a HUGE dad-crush on Papa Been for all of these reasons.  But especially because he really gave a damn about who he was talking to.  He might not have remembered your name and occupation right off the bat (unless you're my dear friend, Jodi), but he knew you were "doing something cool"  and was genuinely interested in what you had to say.  I remember the last time I saw him here in Sacramento this past February: it was the first time I'd seen the band in well over a year, so they weren't aware of PGEW and all its minor successes.  I told Papa Been about what I'd been doing and the plans I had to write a book based on the blog, and I will never forget the pride and encouragement in his voice when he told me, "Good for you, sweetie!  That is excellent!"

He didn't have to do that.  It's not like we were BFFs who texted everyday.  But that was what was so cool about Michael Been: he would make anyone feel like part of his extended band family with his warmth and openness.

*sigh*

I know it may be weird to those outside of this special BRMC family that I should care so much about someone who is seemingly unattached to the rest of my life.  But the reality is that he was a part of some special moments that I miss and cherish.  Music to me is like water, like the air that I must breathe everyday - I have to have it.  Live music is no exception.  Going to shows regularly was a sort of release and a recharge all at once, and Papa Been was part of some of the greatest times I've spent surrounded by incredible music and friends.  Someday when things are better for me, I will start going to shows again, and I will like it.  But it will be hard not to have Michael Been around to make every part of the show just that much better.

Rest in peace, Papa Been.  It hurts not to have you with us anymore, but your spirit will live on forever through your own music and your son's.  I'll miss you.

(From a conversation with my 11 year-old step-sister a few days ago...)

I honestly don't know what's cuter: the crazy hopping around, or when they slip and slide all over the place!

Despite the fact that I'm hobbling around at a snail's pace these days, I've been pretty darned giddy. It's August - my favorite month of the year b/c it's my birth month - and it should be plenty fun & busy, provided I don't break, sprain, or otherwise maim other parts of my body.

• I would love to by a fly on the wall of Chelsea Clinton's wedding this weekend. Not just to see the dress and all the other wedding accoutrements, but to see the look on President Clinton's face when he gives her away. Weddings make me cry anyway, but it's always the look on the daddy's face that turns me into a blubbering idiot. If I ever get married I will have to remember NOT to wear make up because of this.
• Victoria's Secret Puddin' Pie lip gloss is the most deliciously scented lip gloss on the entire planet. I don't know WHY those fools decided to discontinue it, but I am determined to get my hands on every. last. tube of that stuff!!! I've had some luck on eBay but not so much on Amazon. Anyone know of any girly sites that might have discontinued lip glosses available?
• There's a boy here at work that I'd like to try flirting with (he's just a summer intern, so he'll be gone soon), but he's not very social or talkative. How do you flirt with a brick wall?
• I'm going to Seattle for the International Food Blogger Conference next month! SQUEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!! Seattle's been at the top of my U.S. Cities To Visit list for years and I finally get to go! Doubt I'll be able to do much sightseeing since the conference is chock full of back-to-back sessions, but I'm still excited to go!
• It's a shame that it's so easy for me to break my toes. I'm not sure if I'm the biggest klutz in the universe or just really, really thorough at toe-stubbing.
• Speaking of self-inflicted pain, I can't decide if playing all this Bejeweled Blitz is giving me carpal tunnel syndrome or strengthening my hand & wrist. The first few weeks of playing that time-sucker hurt like hell, but now I seem to be okay. Still, I don't want to risk it as I neither want nor afford hand surgery. Ergo, it's time to learn to play with my left hand.
• Seriously though, I can't believe I broke my fucking toe. Must be Friday!

Yesterday I had a photo shoot with a couple of the folks from The Sacramento Bee for a future article in their Food & Wine section. It's been a little over a year since I was first featured in the Bee in an official capacity (there was that small bit in June...), but after a couple of brief mentions for this and that over the past couple months, I was approached by Bee staffers once again. This time around they were looking for someone who could A) make a wicked ceviche and B) do so on a budget. It's rather flattering that I'm quickly becoming Sacramento's go-to person for eating well on the cheap, and I was happy & honored to work on this feature with them.

Stunning purple flowers climbing up the side of a building in the courtyard of the San Carlos Borromeo Mission Basilica in Carmel, CA.


(From the mini-vacation my mom & I took to Monterey & Carmel earlier this month. More pictures coming in a new post soon!)

Once upon a time there was a thing called "MySpace". "MySpace" was a social networking site that allowed all sorts of people to connect, share their interests, music, photos, and even their thoughts through something called a "blog". I used to write on this "blog" contraption quite frequently, posting my most inane thoughts, my dreams, my rants, and my reviews of hot rockstar studded concerts. It was a release of sorts, since I have too many thoughts for my own good. It was entertaining. It was cathartic. It was fun.

Then came the day when a big giant called "Facebook" took over the world and "MySpace" swiftly faded into the background. Status updates replaced the simple blog of random thoughts, and the world completely changed. I fought the call of the herd as long as I could, for a few reasons, including: 1) I don't like to follow herds; 2) MySpace was more fun because it was more personal and allowed for a lot more customization; 3) THERE WAS NO PLACE TO BLOG!!! (Granted, the "Facebook" giant has a "notes" section, but it just isn't the same for me. Again, too impersonal.)